A Wedding on St Valentine's Day
by phfina
Summary: What? Really? Rosalie and Bella tie the knot? On St. Valentine's day? Awwwww! This is a side-story to my little AH/AU BellaRose Ridden fic. A sequel to my one-shot "Happy New Year."


**One-shot summary**: What? Really? Rosalie and Bella tie the knot? On St. Valentine's day? Awwwww! This is a side-story to my little AH/AU BellaRose _Ridden _fic. A sequel to my one-shot "Happy New Year."

* * *

It was finally happening.

Of course, Bella said yes, and, of course, we had to get married right now. A month and a half was more than enough time for an engagement, and Valentine's Day was the day you were supposed to show your love for your sweetheart.

Well, when I bought Bella that rock to give to her on New Years Day, the wheels were already in motion.

Not that she _couldn't_ say 'no' to me. I mean, I fully expected her 'yes' (I suppose I didn't expect quite so many tears, but Bella is Bella, and I love her for them), but if she said 'no,' it would've been okay, I'm sure.

I mean, she could've said anything she wanted.

Wouldn't matter. She was mine, from the top of her head down to her dainty toes, so anything she said would've been fine, like:

'No, Rosalie, right here in front on my mom, I will not marry you; I will not be your wife.'

I'd be, like: 'Oh, that's fine, Bella ... did you want a big or small ceremony?'

And then handle the discipline aspect later.

Like I did when she, eventually, did say 'yes.'

'Waaaah! Boo, hoo, hoo! Waaaaah! Waaaah!' she wailed.

'So I take it that's a "yes," Bella?' I remarked wryly.

'Waaaaah! Waaaaah! Waaaaah!'

You would not believe the heroic measures I had to take to calm her so I could rock her to sleep that night.

Oh, so is 'fuck her so many times and so hard that she faints' a synonym for 'calm'?

I wonder that, idly, sometimes, when I have nothing better to do.

But 'yes' she did say, and discipline I did administer.

Not that I _had_ to. Administering discipline falls to me, but I can't say I dislike giving Bella little ... 'corrections' now and again, when I feel she needs them.

And she always does _so need_ my corrective measures.

Long. Hard. And often.

But, when I set the wheels in motion for the fated day, it included telling my parents, because ...

Because I felt it'd be ... nice for them to know, in an abstract sense, that their daughter was getting married.

Mom took it very well, of course. You don't come into my bedroom on my eighteenth birthday and find a girl in your daughter's arms and not know something was up, and it was more than just a 'sleepover' with my 'new friend' who wasn't in the cheerleading squad who Mom had never met.

Yeah, the introduction that Saturday morning went over well.

Well, as well as could be expected.

But Dad ...

Dad didn't take that bit of news well at all.

Which surprised me. It's not like he knew I existed, or anything ... standing me up on my eighteenth birthday for the lame-ass reason that he had to study issues on the Obamacare bill ... Excuse me? Is that what they call 'fucking another one of your interns your daughter's age'? Just wondering.

Being a member of the U.S. Senate had its perks. Like: 'handlers' and 'interns.'

Yeah, he 'handled' them, and they 'handled' him, too. And he 'interned' them, a lot.

The only time he did come home was when I almost got expelled weeks before graduation, and the media went into a frenzy about it.

He didn't come home to rescue nor to defend me. Oh, no: he came home to do damage control on publicity nightmare, that _I, _his no-good daughter, created.

He grounded me life plus twenty for that one, and he swore I'd never see my friends again.

Being a member of the U.S. Senate had its problems: like you read about your dad on the front page of the _Hartford Courant._ Weekly. And that's how I knew my dad. And when he read about me on the front page, though, it was the 'end of the World,' and 'what in the World has gone wrong with kids these days!' and I was grounded for life.

But, could I say, "Well, Dad, I get called into the principal's office for standing up for my friend _(whom I love) _because _somebody_ decides she has to call her a fucking dyke, a bitch and whore and slaps her face in the cafeteria during lunch, and that's bad, but when you get put on the front page for bribes, I mean, 'accepting gifts from political action committees of weekend vacations on multimillion dollar yachts stocked with coke and hookers,' that's okay, is it, Dad, huh?"

Could I say that? No, I could not. Not if I didn't want to see Dad go into one of his 'roid rages and take it out on me and Mom, that is.

I so loved that he had his own place on Senator row in Washington, D.C. It kept him there and us safe here in Connecticut, and all we had to do is stand next to him and smile at the camera, his beautiful, perfect family during the quarterly photo shoots when he came back to his home State to tell us all what a great job he was doing for us in D.C.

And people say I have the perfect life.

Well, yes, actually, I do. Yes, I'm ultrarich, now independently from my parents, I own four corporations now, and my web start-up I just sold to Google for forty million dollars. Not bad for a junior in college.

Sad to see that team and my IP for that company go, they were good people, and the company's value just passed one hundred million dollars, so I guess I undersold, but, hey, I can always start another web company. I hear 'cloud computing' is in. I'll just get a bunch of hungry guys from the computer science department together, feed them subways and give them some laptops and let them rip. 'Go play, guys! Invent something awesome!'

That's what I did with my last company. That worked.

And that doesn't even touch the mutual fund company I've been managing for, oh, three years now. We just passed three bil-...

I won't tell you what we've just passed. You wouldn't believe me. Anyway, you can read it in our annual report. We're the little investment portfolio management firm known as the Pacific Northwest fund.

Yeah, we're doing well. Our shareholders like us.

We have charitable arm that gives grants and scholarships, particularly for underprivileged students who show some promise in the creative arts, such as writing, for example.

I just mention that in passing.

No. Bella doesn't know a thing about my business ... interests. She has enough worries on her own. I gave her a black credit card, and I give her anything she wants. All she has to do is look, and it's hers.

She gets a little gun-shy when we go shopping sometimes. Might be when she saw the floor model of the latest Tesla (those pure-electric cars), and said, 'Wow, Rosalie, look at that!'

It did look nice, all sleek black, the door opening itself for you when it sensed you were near, and a heads-up display, right on the windshield, showing you everything: your speed, your location, your distance to your destination, and the price of the entrées at the restaurant you were going to.

It was nice.

So, the next week, when I drove up in one to pick her up for class, telling her that it was hers ...

Yeah, she gets a little gun-shy these days when I take her out, well, anywhere, actually.

Dad bought mom an island in the Caribbean... There's actually a town in France with a medieval castle for sale. The whole town. I'm not joking. I'm wondering if Bella likes French food.

Just wondering.

Then there's the Redsox. I think two-hundred million was a controlling share up for grabs. Bella and I could own a major league baseball team. All it'd take from me is one phone call to my investment team, and ...

I have to see if Bella's a Redsox fan.

People actually will their season tickets to the Redsox. There's a waiting list to buy season tickets for the Redsox, and they aren't cheap.

Not for most people.

If I owned the Redsox, season tickets and box seats would come with.

Where I'd be sitting, the wind might actually spray me with David Ortiz's spit, and wouldn't that just make Phil, Bella's new dad, just keel over in a fangasm.

And there's a title for sale, too. An island off of England, I hear: they're selling their title.

Lady Rosalie, queen of whatever-island-nation-that's-for-sale.

Sounds interesting. ... What is the title of the wife of a Queen, though?

Lady Bella, wife-queen?

All these problems we have, being ultrarich. And then there's the meetings with my lawyers and my wealth manager and my company CEOs, ... there was just never any time to study and to devote to being with Bella, and that really ticked me off. When I saw Bella, I was on the phone, or I was just flying in from somewhere, because I had to put out a fire, and my people _needed_ me there.

And then the favors.

I mean, I just flew in from Hawaii because Lauren wanted me to look at some property, a bar, of all things, so she could take her latest flame, ... what was her name? Sophie? ... to her latest deployment to Alaska.

Lauren volunteers twice to go to Afghanistan, gets blown up, then she volunteers to go to Alaska, because why? Because she has the hots for some barmaid that wants to go somewhere isolated and cold for a change?

Whipped. Lauren was whipped, big time.

When I was appraising the property with my team out there (it actually is a good deal on prime real estate, and the girl had no clue of its value ... she was asking 1980s prices for it. I almost felt sorry for her ... almost), Lauren actually, can you believe it, asked me if I had the pull to get her a job in ... okay, wait for it, Antarctica, of all places, and she told me she picked up her CDL for fork-lift operator because she knew there were open positions out there.

_"Out ... WHERE?"_ I nearly screeched.

_"Jeez, Rosalie, keep your voice down!" _Lauren said.

She wanted to ... okay, ... she wanted to _surprise_ her Sophie with that gift, that she got a position out in Antarctica so they could move out there together, her and Sophie.

Sophie's degree was in nautical science, so she'd be good for interning there, I suppose.

Antarctica.

Lauren was whipped.

And I did not like that Sophie-girl at all. Lauren flew her out here, and right off the plane, Sophie was in my face about what was and what wasn't okay in a relationship, and that she wasn't this pushover that neither I nor Lauren could just own.

So I was like, "Hm. That's ... interesting."

Then I had Bella strip, right in front of her, in the Thai restaurant they brought me out to, because they wanted to impress me.

I had been to that place before. I liked it. So I bought it. We had our own private dining room.

A private dining room was good for when I wanted to fuck Bella, good and hard, after a nice and spicy panang gai, as I don't think our Catholic Democratic constituency would be cool with me throwing my girl on the table and ripping her dress off right in front of them.

I didn't have a problem with it. _Bella_ didn't have a problem with it ... eventually (after the second or third orgasm I forced out of her, she usually lost her sense of shame, a little bit, like, oh, I don't know, her screaming at the top of her lungs: "Oh, Rosalie, oh, God, Rosalie, fuck me harder, please, please, please fuck _meeeeee!"_ So what's a girl to do, I ask you?). So why should they?

There were these stupid things called 'laws,' that I always found so annoying but ...

But Sophie had a problem with that, for some stupid reason. Sophie had a problem with everything about me with regards to Bella, it seems: Sophie had a problem with Bella's seating arrangement (on her knees at my feet), Sophie had a problem with me feeding Bella by hand (and coincidently smearing panang gai all over Bella's face ... Bella can't eat spicy food, by the way, ... her little pitiful whines as I feed her are just so ... _precious!)_ and then cleaning up the smears, with my tongue, of course. And, after the supper, I couldn't drag Bella out of the room, naked, without Sophie making this big stink, so ...

I mean, what the hell? What's her problem, anyway!

Intolerant little Hawaiian fuck. And such a hypocrite, too: oh, it's okay for her to be a little pillow bi-curious les ('oh, fuck me hard up the ass with your big, black strap-on, Lauren! ... but that doesn't make me gay, or anything.'), but when I have just a teensy, little bit of fun with my Bella, it's all 'oh, that's so misogynistic!' and 'oh, is that how you want men to see how women treat each other, so they think they can do that shit, too? Is it?'

Fuck her. Bitch. 'Misogynistic'? Just because she took 'women's studies' (is that even a fucking for-credit course?) in college does not make her the God-damn spokesperson for NOW.

I did not like Lauren's new girlfriend. At all. And no, she doesn't 'grow' on you, as Lauren pleaded with me to give her a second chance, saying that my 'alternative lifestyle' really threw Sophie for a loop.

Well, who's problem is that? Get over it, you old sow! Yeah, I did my background check on Lauren's 'girl' friend, of course, and she wasn't a 'girl' friend for Lauren. Well, maybe she was younger than Lauren's mom, but can you spell 'cougar' or 'cradle robber'?

I give their relationship two more months before 'Sophie' gets bored and drops her 'oh, I'm so young and naïve!' façade, and Lauren gets the hint that maybe she should swim in her own waters and stay out of the geriatric pool.

Besides, my Telsa (well, _Bella's_ Tesla, that she never drove ... she was such a skittish little thing, especially when I couldn't wait and just had to cop a feel. We learned then that _she_ would always be the passenger, and I would always be the driver. And I drove her, all right, in more ways that one!) was parked around the back, and the staff knew my preferences, so what was the big deal? I dragged her out by the hair nearly every time we went there. No big deal! They had the clothes laundered and delivered to our flat ... the ones that were salvageable, that is. Bella's clothes I ripped to shreds tearing off her, they just got rid of. Smart people at that restaurant.

But I don't make it a habit to work with idiots, as a rule. They learned what I expected and my way of doing things, or they learned how to polish their resume and look for another job without a reference from me.

Well, without a _good_ reference, that is.

It is good to be the company owner, and not the company employee, I've learned.

All the things you think of, your long, long, month-and-a-half long engagement flashing before your eyes, while you're waiting at the altar for your bride.

To see if she shows up. Jitters, you know? And her mom rode with her in the limo, so they've had, what? three meltdowns on the way here, so far, I'm sure.

And Dad was my man of honor.

That's a trip. Behind the podium, he's all like 'We support a Free America where every citizen has a right to ...' blah-blah-blah. And 'I'm "proud" of the courage of our gay, lesbian and trans citizens who's stood for what they've believed in the face of intolerance from the Right, and I promise you, as your Senator that ...' blah-blah-blah.

But when it came to _his daughter..._

"Rosalie! Think! Why are you throwing your life away for this ... this _idiocy!_ Is this some kind of grab for attention for Daddy's love? Because if it is, I'm not going to engage in this foolishness!"

Thanks, Dad.

"And what about this girl? She's ... financially challenged, you know that, right? She's just pursuing you for your money, you know that? When she can prove cohabitation, she'll sue the shit out of you, like all those money-grabbing social climbing wannabes do. Believe me, Rosalie, I know!"

Uh, Dad, actually, I pursued her.

"What about that Emmett-boy? He was a nice kid. He got drafted by the NFL. That's a start. He could pick up some sponsorships if he does well. He's got potential, and he's Catholic, too. And that's a good move when he graduates into politics, particularly in this State. He could give you children, Rosalie. Think about it. Can that girl? The answer is no to that, before you start making ridiculous assertions. That girl will never give you a child that's yours. Just drop her. Keep her as a mistress and marry Emmett. Be smart, Rosalie. There's no future in those fringe lifestyles, and you know it, they're just poster-child projects you can parade out to use against the Right, playing on the common people's sympathies, but that's it. Don't confuse hormones and a good fuck or two with a good, solid and secure future."

You mean, a 'traditional' future, Dad. Like 'conservative'? And, oh, by the way, Dad, Emmett won't be giving you biological grandchildren, because I'm just one of your projects, right? An adopted step-child you can't even show up to her eighteenth birthday, the most important day in her life.

"Ah, Rosalie, I just can't talk to you, can I? You give me that smart-ass know-it-all attitude, all the time, well, don't come crying to me when she waltzes away with all your money _and_ your broken heart."

Yeah, whatever, Dad.

And I thought we were done. I thought we were through.

Then the media picked up that the daughter of the senior Senator from Connecticut was getting married, and she was marrying a disadvantaged girl, that she was supporting everything the Democrat party stood for, that this senior Senator wasn't just all talk, and all favors and pork-barrelling and kick-backs, that he actually had heart, and stood for what he believed and for the good of the people of the Country, and ...

Suddenly, I had a very visible and very public supporter in my dad, on the platform, and off.

We had paparazzi outside our front door every morning now: we had to go to sleep, and wake up, now, as one big happy and smiling family.

24x7.

So, now, instead of Dad needling me, one more time (well, three more times, he only did it twice so far today), about me just cancelling this farce and even eloping with that Emmett-boy...

Instead of that, he found himself at my side as my 'Man of Honor' asking if he were going to escort me down the aisle soon.

No, Dad. We're staying here, at the altar. Bella's coming to me. She's my bride. She'll be my wife.

'Oh,' Dad said, hiding his disappointment well, and putting on a really big 'I'm so happy for my daughter' grin for the cameras as they flashed and flashed away at this little Unitarian church.

Bella's ...

Bella doesn't believe in God.

And the traditional Presbyterian church in Connecticut still doesn't sanction marrying a same-sex couple. So we can't get married in my church, which crushed Mom, because we go to service, religiously, every Sunday (as Bella was shocked to find out, the day after my birthday party), so not to be married in the presence of her community was a blow.

But this wasn't a small wedding, nor a small reception. Bella and I had friends in high school to catch up with, friends from college who made the trek, and even Lauren and Sophie flew out from Alaska, which was nice of them, considering that Sophie hated my guts for some reason, but I guess she did adore Lauren.

Lauren. Lauren, of all people, had herself a gay little femme who adored her.

It was so cute to watch, those two, as Lauren oozed sultriness all over her sub, and her little subby Sophie looked around for an escape from her embarrassment that somebody might find out.

I hear she's a wildcat in bed. A real screamer, I'm told.

Not by Lauren, but my dad has ties to Homeland Security, and I do have a rather ... 'expedient' lawyer-'friend' by the name of J. Jenks who has ways of finding out things, and is very good at digging up dirt on people.

He has a file on me. I read it. It's colorful. I found out a lot about Bella's past when he did his own special 'background check' on her for me. Without my permission.

He's very ... opportunistic.

But he knows on which side of his bread is buttered. And he knows how I ... take care of unpleasant business that I want ... 'disappeared.' It's in my file. Those five football guys who got me drunk and raped me at some kegger my freshman year in high school?

Yeah. That accident with their van and that police cruiser? Tragic. So many young men's futures snuffed out. And post-mortem that showed their BAC?

Kids, don't drink and drive, especially when you're leaving a party after having just raped that cute, little junior varsity cheerleader, snapping pictures of you high-fiving your buds over her screaming _'no!'_ and puking as you fucked her up the ass.

Yeah, just don't do that. You never know what one phone call from her to some 'friends' of the family will lead you to.

Jenks knows what I can do to people that really piss me off. He's not going to rat me out for anything.

Especially after his little fuck-secretary, Maria was her name? wanted to stick her nose into my business when I was transferring Bella's custody rights and power of attorney over to me from her mom and herself, respectively.

When I told Bella I own her, I meant it. And she found that out when she signed and saw witnessed my 'adoption' of her.

That's when I gave her her black credit card, too. And if you don't know what a black credit card is ... well, make two or three million a year (like I did, _way_ back when ... I measure millions by weeks now, not by years), and you'll get the offer.

You can't apply for one. You're just given one, with a 'Please, Ms. Hale, consider using our services, and we'd be most grateful!'

Here's a hint. Three people who have black credit cards? Steve Jobs (when he was alive), Bill Gates, ... and Rosalie Hale.

And, since Bella became my adopted daughter (Hey, my parents adopted me when I was older; I'm just continuing tradition!), I put her on the family plan.

I monitor every penny she spends. It all comes through me, anyway.

Like she ever uses it. She bought a breakfast sandwich at Starbucks once because she was hungry (I was on a God-damned _business trip!_ Bella was at _school! _and she hadn't eaten in _two days!), _she nearly cried her eyes out when she called me to tell me she used the card for a less-than-five dollar purchase so she could eat, and would I ever forgive her?

I asked her why she didn't get a latte, too, but she said it was okay, that she could drink water, because that was free.

You ever taste the tap water at Starbucks? _Disgusting!_ I nearly did kill her, I almost reached through the phone to strangle her and told her if she _ever_ went that duration again without eating a decent meal ...

I didn't leave it hanging. I flew right home and fed her.

After a little bit of a ... 'corrective' disciplining session, of course.

You ever whip a girl with your belt to unconsciousness for _not_ spending your money?

I have.

Her screams were _exquisite!_ I nearly came, right there, not touching myself, just listening to the music of her cries and then watching her faint on the bed, dropping hard after straining her every nerve, trying to bear each lash of my personal whip as I put my whole arm, my whole body, into each blow, and watching her fail, and fail so miserably, so beautifully.

Then, after she (somewhat) recovered, and after she could walk under her own power, almost, again, and I got her cleaned up ... we went out for Thai.

And I made sure, _personally, _she was well-fed, bite by hand-given bite, at supper, as you can well imagine.

Then I made sure her ... other needs were taken care of, when we got home that night.

Furious-fuck, anyone? I canceled several important business meeting so I could charter a flight home to make sure my Bella got something to eat.

I am seriously going to have to teach that girl to drive, and show her where Stop and Shop is, for God's sake. She knows how to cook. I know that well. I taught her. Blow by blow. So it's not like she lacks the skill or the knowledge.

What she lacks is ... me.

I am everything to her, and without me, she doesn't even know how to eat on her own.

It's ... cute, I suppose, ... and I have _no_ desire, _none!_ to make her a strong, independent woman. She tried that route already, nearly failing out of high school, overdosing on drugs, or starving to death ... or all three. The strong, independent woman was me, and when she needed strength, well ... I'm right here.

I'm right here, at the altar, and Bella is so not there, at the entrance of the church, as she should be.

Bella was late.

Bella was late to her own wedding.

I smiled, harder, at the crowd of well-wishers, well-to-doers, and well, media sharks.

"Dad," I whispered out of the side of my voice. "She's _late!"_

Dad checked his phone. "Take it easy, Rosalie," he said soothingly. "It's just thirty-seven seconds after the hour for chrissake! Maybe the limo hit a set of red lights or maybe ..."

"Or maybe she's _late!" _I snarled. "Go do your God-damn job as Best Man and get your thugs to bonk her over the head and drag her down the aisle! _NOW!"_

I was nick-named _'Veruca, darling'_ by some friends who didn't mind me biting their heads off in school for some reason. The nickname stuck. Unfortunately.

"But I thought you didn't want me as your Best Man, Rosalie, dear," Dad said patiently.

"Well, congratulations, Dad," I whispered, internally seething, but I felt my top, and it was ready to blow, "you've just been promoted. So. Now we've cleared that up, I want me my bride at the entrance to this God-damn church, and I want her _now,_ breathing would be nice but optional!"

I felt my dad regarding me.

If I were the queen of impatience, he was the king of sarcasm, and smooth, slick, syrupy sarcasm, at that, so we just mixed together _so_ well! Like nitric acid and glyceride or ... _boom! _you know? Dynamite, just waiting to explode whenever the two of us wanted to have a 'pleasant' heart-to-heart about whatever was irking one of us about the other.

... You know, that special father-daughter relationship when the Dad thinks you're still his little six-year-old girl, and he acts all patronizing and sarcastic-like: 'Well, now, Rosalie, aren't you so cute when you're angry like that!'

But I felt that he decided maybe this time would not be the best time to watch me fly off the handle, ... not at my own wedding: sucker-punching him or the minister in front of all that press would make awesome copy for the front pages, but not be a good career-enhancer for dear-old-Dad.

He turned to one of his heavies and said something to the man, and the man turned away and cupped his mouth, speaking rather clearly into a mic.

Like that was so subtle. Why don't you just wear a sweatshirt with big block letters: "Secret Service!"

I felt myself just spoiling for a fight.

Two minutes, fourteen seconds after "Treulich geführt" should've been playing (why they call the bridal march _'Lohengrin,' _I'll never know), and still no Bella.

This was so not funny. God, she was going to get it. There'd be no honey, but I was fit to knock her to the moon _after_ she said "I do," and then _"Rosalie, please don't kill me!"_

I wouldn't kill her. Maybe. But maybe she'd wish I did after I finished, months later, punishing this particularly egregious infraction.

Three minutes, thirty-three seconds.

"Dad," I whispered menacingly, "her location. Now. And put up God-damn snipers!"

I knew I should have had a geolocator chip implanted into that girl's spine, I swear to God. With maybe my own LX model, that, like, delivers a very strong current to the nerve centers for agony to the brain whenever Bella's pull a stunt like this.

But, then again, she'd always be in agony, and there'd be no buildup, just her writhing on the floor wherever she was, so where's the fun of that, if you can't build absolute terror in the one you're just about to say 'boo!' to so you can see them piss their jeans again.

Hilarious.

Fucking hilarious. I think I'll make her piss her wedding gown marching down the aisle if she didn't show up in ...

Dad said: "Her location, Rosalie? Oh, I'd say about fifteen meters from where you're standing."

"Huh?" I said intelligently.

That's when the bridal march began to play, and I turned to the entrance to the church, and saw a vision, an angel.

My Bella.

Her bridal party were dressed in lavender dresses, and Bella wasn't wearing a Vera Wang with a long train. _Anybody _could wear a Vera Wang.

She was wearing a C.J. Rae. You don't pay her. Well, you do, but she selects her clients, you don't buy her dresses from a distributor: she makes them in her shop, as she has been doing for the last fifty years. Nobody's heard of her until models starting showing up in _Vogue_ wearing _'exclusive C.J. Rae'_ ballroom gowns and ensembles and little black numbers, and ...

She was a personal friend of the family before fame came and knocked at her door.

She made my dress for my birthday party. It was a knock-out dress, all red and classic lines, ... very me.

She made Bella's dress for my birthday party. I told C.J. her dress had to be the best thing she ever made, and, oh, by the way, I needed it tomorrow.

Then I put the money on the table.

C.J. handed me the money right back. She doesn't work for money. She doesn't need it. She has her little shop and more orders that she'll ever fill in her lifetime.

So I put her name on the line. Was she C.J. Rae or not?

And I gave her a little something else to sweeten the deal.

I got Bella's dress. It was ... _stunning. _A shimmering, diaphanous lavender number where you could guess Bella's weight to the ounce, slight flare at the base, so she could walk in little tiny mincing steps if she needed to go anywhere, ever, and not be on her escort's strong and supporting arm. It was demure, covering the shoulders, and not exactly low-cut, but showing a hint of her creamy-white skin below the neck, reminding the partner that this girl was the gift, in this exquisite wrapping. I swear the God-damn thing was spray painted onto her body, and it fit her just fine, if she didn't breathe too hard, or, at all.

Escorting Bella into the Hartford club where we had my surprise birthday party for me with, oh, was it one hundred fifty guests? People forgot the birthday party was for me.

I knew I did. I could not take my eyes off her for one second that whole party. People came up to me, shook my hand, talked business (I already had my mutual fund group in full swing by then) or pleasantries, wishing me a 'Happy Birthday, Rosalie!' I guess.

I wish I remember who they were, or what they said. I just didn't care at the time.

That fucking dress killed me. I paid C.J. ... and don't you _dare_ tell Bella this ... three-thousand dollars ... plus a ... special gift for C.J. which she appreciated. She got herself a fierce little red-head protégé with a talent for fashion design, and, despite being American, a willingness to work hard and bear the brunt of C.J.'s very severe guidance, which, being Korean, was dead silence most of the day and scathing criticism whenever little (not so little, actually) Vicky did something stupid or American, which was all the time.

C.J. walked away with somebody she could teach, would would learn and listen and work, and this shocked the hell out of her, although her face never showed it.

But I was the one who walked away with the steal.

I walked away with Bella.

And Bella walked away with my heart.

Seeing her now, surrounded by her entourage, her mom, the girls in the bridal party, surrounded but alone, distinct, glowing. Beautiful.

And her dress. Yes, I had C.J. design it, so I knew what I was getting, a long white column dress, a maria clara with just the faintest breath of lavender imbued in the translucent coconut weave gave her ethereal wings on her shoulders, the vale hiding absolutely nothing ... Bella was shyer, wearing a wedding vale, then she was standing by me walking to class on Dartmouth campus wearing a pair of blue jeans.

And that was saying something.

Why was she so shy with me at school? I carried her books for her between classes. If anybody had any questions about us (and college boys can be rather thick at times), then me handing Bella her books as she sat at her desk and then me hiking to my own class left little room for doubt.

The ring I'd put on her finger in just a few wonderfully delicious and torturous moments would shine the light of clarity on any dumbass who still didn't catch the clue.

Bella was _mine._ Now, and forever.

I looked across the length of the church and smiled possessively. She caught my look, and her flushed face — she was probably running in her train to make it up the church steps so she could be _late!_ to her wedding — flushed redder.

_'Sorry!'_ she mouthed apologetically.

My possessive smile turned wicked, and I felt the cruel and dominant bitch well up in me.

_'You are SO dead!' _I mouthed back.

I was this close to running up the aisle, grabbing her by the hair, stuffing her in the limo and having my way, my very, very wicked way with her on our way to our hotel room. Fuck the wedding and the guests!

Bella's little helpless waif look just brought out the beast in me, and that beast was _never_ satisfied with just enough, it always needed her _more_ terrified and _more_ pleading, and it only retreated into my black viper(esse?)'s heart after I had thoroughly reduced my Bella to a quivering mass of well-fucked-and-loved-up jelly.

Bella blanched, totally believing my words ... she had nearly a year's-worth of experience of knowing what I said, I meant, and what I meant, I did.

Tonight, our wedding night, she was _so_ dead. I only hoped her vocal chords were relaxed now, because she was such a little screamer in bed, and she would be screaming, and pleading...

All.

Night.

Long.

This wedding couldn't be over soon enough, and it took Bella approximately seventeen-point-three hours to walk down the aisle.

I wanted to kill the organist, too. Why the hell was he playing _langsam? _This was a bridal _march_ for God's sake, this wasn't a dirge!

Bella. By my side. She was trembling with emotion. She looked so fragile, like she could barely breathe.

But this was the way it should be: Bella, by my side.

This is the way the Universe worked.

The minister blabbed on forever about marriage being the true expression of love and required not a fifty-fifty commitment from each partner _(okay, 'partner'? Bella's my fucking __wife__!)_ but everything, all that each person could give, and God, or however we saw our higher power, blessed such devotion with his or her blessings.

I rolled my eyes at that. Unitarians. Swear to God. Water them down any more and you'd have fruitarians: 'O, peach, I worship you as the one, true, higher power! ... that is, if it's okay with you!'

I bore through the sermonizing as best I could.

Then came the exchange of vows, and the rings.

My Dad gave me Bella's ring.

"Bella," I said, my voice ringing through the whole church, just like that mealy-mouthed minister's voice ... didn't. "I _take_ you as my wife." I said.

I glared right into her eyes, but she couldn't look at me, her body was shaking like a leaf.

"I promise you to hold you forever and ever," I declared very strongly. "And I will never, ever let you go. I love you, Bella Hale, my wife, now, and forever."

I put the ring on her finger.

Her palms had fingernail prints in them.

Now it was Bella's turn. Abby, her best friend in high school, her _only_ friend she ever made outside my circle, handed her the ring.

She didn't drop it, taking it with trembling hands from the little silk pillow.

"Rosalie," she whispered.

I wanted to scream at her to speak up.

I held my tongue and looked right into her eyes.

"I ..." she stuttered, "I g-give ... give myself t-to you as your, ..."

She gasped and then sobbed, trembling.

"... as your ..."

She started crying and wheezed in three quick breaths.

_"Breathe, Bella," _I whispered very softly, very gently. _"Breath," _I said, _"you can do this."_

Bella panted for a few seconds, looking to me for help, for strength.

I was a God-damn pillar of strength for my Bella. That was my promise to her, now and forever.

She squared her shoulders, and tried again. "Rosalie," she said a bit louder, "I give myself to you as your ... as your wife. I ... I ... I ..."

She lost it again, and started crying. "Oh, God, Rosalie, I love you so much; I just love you so much." She sobbed loudly, then repeated: "Oh, God, I love you so much!"

_Okay,_ I thought. _Close enough._ She didn't exactly follow the script, and her vow wasn't exactly Shakespeare, but that wasn't the point, was it? I'll still give her marks for the depth of her feeling she expressed to me, and only to me. Forever. I'll take it, the vow, and the vower.

I nodded to her encouragingly, but by now the tears were flowing freely down her cheeks, and her whole body was shaking like a leaf. I had to wrap my arms around her body to support her as her whole arm shook, trying, and failing to put the ring on my finger.

So I supported her arm, helping her to do what she needed and wanted to do: bind me to her, forever, just as I had bound her to me. Forever.

"Well," the minister chuckled, and there were titters in the congregation, relieving the intensity of the moment. She smiled at us both, her name was Jan Gray, she was a nice, older person, in her fifties, with that New England air, short rust curly hair, thin face, steel-grey eyes, a warm smile. "I now declare you, under of the State of Connecticut and witnessed by this gathering of friends, family and well-wishers, to be a lawfully wedded couple. You may kiss each other as a sign of your love for each other."

Nice lady. I wanted to punch her in the face. We didn't 'kiss each other.' I kissed my Bella.

But Bella didn't get that message. I lifted her vale, and she gave me a quick, shy little Bella-peck.

I just stood there and smirked.

Bella's eyes grew round. She knew that look. _"What?" _she asked defensively.

But it did her no good. I closed the distance between us, mashing my body against hers and wrapped her in my arms with a vise-like grip.

It is possible that I could've bent steel with my grip, if I wanted to.

Then I put my lips to hers, firmly, ...

... And I kissed her.

I kissed her hard.

I kissed her long.

I kissed her ... devotedly, ... no, not 'devotedly,' more like: _'you are __mine__! you are __mine__!' ... _more like: _'Finally!'_ and _'Forever!'_

... Maybe I kissed her a little _too_ devotedly.

Bella fainted dead away in my arms.

I sat us down in front of the altar, resting Bella's head in my lap.

You should have _heard_ the commotion! I swear to God Bella's mom screamed loud enough to break the large windows along the church building, and she rushed us like it were the first time she ever saw Bella faint, or something.

Although, perhaps this was the first time for her mom to see Bella faint. For me, this was a pretty regular occurrence. I don't know, some people may find me a bit intense. I know Bella tended to be overwhelmed by me at times.

The crowd was in an uproar, and everybody surged forward to help or, more likely, to gawk and snapchat.

"Abby," I shouted. "Dad! Make yourselves useful, please, and give us some breathing room!"

Sweet little maid-of-honor Abby sprung right into action.

_"EVERYBODY!" _she bellowed, _"back off! Give Bella room to breathe! I am one wild Asian chick here, and I know Tae Kwan Do, and I WILL USE IT!"_

Of course, Abby was bluffing, or, if she did know tae kwan do, it didn't help her at all when I handed her ass to her when we first met. She said 'auntie!' so many times it just got embarrassing, and I nearly twisted her arm off behind her back as I made her eat dirt.

Didn't help her at the swim meet the next day, having a nearly twisted-off arm.

But offer Bella a ride home? _My _Bella?

Let's just say I lost my cool. A little bit.

Her words had effect, however. That, and for the majority of guests, this was the first time they were seeing an Asian person. She could be Jhoon Rhee for all they knew.

The crowd paused in its surge, and we had a small space around us, me, my unconscious Bella, Renée, Dad and Abby.

"Please," I said quietly, but my voice clear and carrying, "Bella's okay. She just fainted, is all. She just needs space, quiet, and time, okay? She's okay, all right?"

I turned to look down at Bella.

"Bella," I whispered.

Her eyes fluttered.

"Bella," I said.

She blinked a couple of times and looked up at me.

"Where are we?" she asked stupidly.

There were relieved guffaws in the crowd around us.

This got her attention, and she looked around quickly, her head resting in my lap, and then she blushed a bright crimson.

"It's okay, sweetie," I cooed, "It's okay, just rest and relax ... it's been an ... exciting day for you, hasn't it, baby?"

I saw her pulse thrumming rapidly in her throat, it made me want to kiss her there. Badly. Maybe give her a little nip, too.

"Gawd, Rosalie, did I faint? I'm so embarrassed!" Bella exclaimed.

She made to lift her head. I pushed her down, lightly, back onto my lap.

"Don't worry about that, baby," I said. "It's just you and me now, okay? Remember? That's all that matters, just you and me."

She looked up at me and smiled sweetly, her lower lip trembling. "Yeah," she breathed.

"Yeah," I said confidently, smiling down at her.

She pursed her lip in thought. "You look like an angel, Rosalie Hale, a kick-ass angel in your white business suite."

It was ivory, actually. I didn't correct her. And ... seriously? 'Business suite'? Really! It was tailored and I liked the serious, commanding, not severe, more like guiding and assured look of my matching ivory blazer and skirt.

I smiled warmly down at my Bella. "You look like an angel, too, Mrs. Bella Hale."

Bella's breath caught, and the red traveled up from her neck to repaint her face.

"Oh," she said. "That's right."

And she closed her eyes and was out again, just like that.

"Bella!" Renée shrieked grabbing her hand.

Guess who fainted on Bella's lap.

Dad just loved that. The Cullens were all reserved and respectable people, not given to outbursts and fainting spells and ... hugging, even. We're New Englanders, after all. I know. I'm one of them.

"Um," he hummed helpfully.

I snickered, looking down at the unconscious Swan-and-former-Swan pile, then looked up at my Dad and smiled in understanding.

I believe dear-old-Dad was just now catching a clue what he was in for, being now married into the Swan family. I caught Phil's eyes, holding their baby girl, and he rolled his eyes back at me. "Yeah," he muttered, "now you're gonna have to put up with this everyday, too. Good luck with that."

I smirked at him for that. My thought: bring it on.

...

The reception went fine. It just took forever. The first dance went fine, especially since I warned Bella beforehand that if she'd fainted I'd just revive her and start the dance from the beginning until she made it all the way through the dance, and ... _'don't you dare think I'm joking about that, Bella!'_ I snarled.

She believed me. She stayed conscious through the dance, but her blush melted a chafing dish or two as we passed it.

And then the tinkling of glasses and the kissy-faces. I didn't mind it. If Bella wussed out on a kiss, I just grabbed her and kissed her hard enough to get the message across that no matter how hard she blushed, when I was kissing her, I was kissing her, and she may as well just enjoy the ride, because this was happening and it was for real.

She got the hint, oh, after the seventh or so kiss.

Then we glad-handed. Bella was inexperienced with this.

"Bella," I said, "come with me."

And she rose from her chair, puzzled, but she followed along obediently, her train retired, but her dress swishing along behind her as she walked.

I was proud of her. She didn't stumble once. This was a far cry from a girl who couldn't even walk up and down stairs without being encumbered by clothes. All the time. If you know what I mean.

I mean 'naked.' All the time.

God, my Bella is so fucking hot! Just thinking about her makes me wet!

But we went from table to table, thanking our guests, wishing them well, asking to make sure they were enjoying themselves and the food.

Some people were shocked that _we_, the just-married, were making sure _they_ were having a good time. But that's something I learned from my dad. You made sure your company was happy, and you became happy because of their happiness. You don't look for your own happiness, because that's a sure way to be miserable.

Bella and I circled among the crowd, me, absolutely at ease with everybody, big shots or no, Bella, ... hanging onto my arm and smiling as best she could.

She was the perfect blushing bride, by God.

She didn't eat one thing. People kept coming up to her and congratulating her.

The should have been congratulating me. I had the money, but they weren't congratulating her for marrying well, they were congratulating her for how happy she was.

They should have been congratulating me. Bella was the catch, and I caught her, and now I wasn't going to let go. Ever.

One table was particularly funny.

"Lauren, Sophie!" I exclaimed happily. "So glad you made the long flight over!"

"We wouldn't miss it for the world, Rose," Lauren said.

I smirked. I let that one pass.

Even Bella doesn't dare call me 'Rose.' I think I scare my blushing bride, just a little bit.

Sophie smiled up at me, warmly. She was just so in love with her super-model tomboy she'd be happy anywhere now. Even in my company.

"Are you all having a good time? Enjoying the food?" I asked solicitously.

"God, the food, Rosalie, is _so_ good!" Sophie enthused. "Leg of lamb, is it? In what kind of sauce is it?"

"A burgundy sauce," I said smiling warmly at her. "I'm glad you like the meal. Bella was up all last night cooking in the kitchen making sure it was just right, right, Bella?" I turned my attention to my bride clinging to my arm.

"Uh, what?" Bella asked, in a daze, "Yeah, glad you like it," she offered, her eyes vacuous.

She was way, _way_ off in la-la land.

I escorted Bella back to our table, but I heard Sophie's intense whisper to Lauren. "Rosalie made Bella cook this on her wedding day?"

I tried, very hard, not to burst out laughing.

In Sophie's defense, she did have a case for totally believing I would do that to Bella. I think she thought I read _Taming of the Shrew_ for marriage tips, you know, advice like: _'Tip one: if your bride gets uppity, put her over your knee and warm her bottom until she's complying and submissive again.'_

But then again, that tip made perfect sense to me, as, after all, I did employ that tip to good effect nearly every day or so.

Bella, back at our table, got nothing to eat, and she didn't even drink water, she was so far gone, and her face went from pale to pasty, almost green.

"Bella," Abby whispered, "eat something. Here, have this."

Abby slipped Bella a saltine cracker.

Bella nibbled at it. She ate one little bite off the corner then put it down on her empty plate.

That cracker was still there on her plate when we left for the night in the limo to go to our hotel room.

I had to watch that. You can't force-feed Bella, but when she gets like this, all nervous and fragile, you can't push her.

But still.

The night ... we showered. That calmed her down a bit. We went to bed. I got her a sheer Farr West slip, lavender, of course.

I will never, ever grow tired of the color purple for the rest of my life.

I dressed in whatever. I didn't care. I just needed Bella to be calm and comfortable and know that she was loved.

My bride.

So we didn't make love on our wedding night? You're wondering that, I sure.

Not that it's any of your business, but, yes, like nearly every day, we made love. And today was special, not for the mind-blowing orgasms, because there weren't any. Bella was just too keyed up and tired, all at the same time, and I found I was exhausted, too, just holding everything, and Bella, together to make sure today ... not was a stunning success, but just worked and that we just made it through.

We just had to make it through today, and we did.

Just as we would now, every day for as long as we shall live.

So we made love, and it was soft, and it was sweet, and it was gentle, and, at the end of it, when Bella was done and resting peacefully...

At the end of it, Bella was in my arms, and I was in hers.

I kissed her softly on her forehead.

"I love you, Rosalie Hale," Bella sighed and drifted off to sleep.

I held her, watching the worry lines fade and disappear from her brow, and feeling her breathing become even.

"I love you, Bella Hale, my dearly beloved wife. I love you forever," I said softly.

And I slept.

_fin_

* * *

**A/N: **Happy St. Valentine's day, my lovelies! kisses, `phfina

p.s.: Sophie is Lauren's ... 'friend.' She's a mite conflicted about all this, whatever 'this' is. Her story, and Lauren's, is told in my story _Bitter._ Read it, it's a Lauren-fic, yes, but you may actually surprise yourself by liking it, and by liking ... Lauren, for the first time ever in your life.

p.p.s. Don't. Just don't google 'farr west slips' and select images. Just ... don't do that. 'Cause then you'd storm in on Bella and Rosalie all enflamed with whatever, and then you'd have a very serious problem on your hands ... for the last quarter-second of your life when Rosalie caught that look of lust in your eyes for her blushing bride.


End file.
